


Say Please

by Make_It_Worse



Series: Mind Your Manners [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bathing/Washing, Bottom Hank, Bottom!Hank, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) is a Little Shit, Edging, Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, Ken Doll Android Anatomy | Androids Have No Genitalia (Detroit: Become Human), M/M, More like long-game teasing, Orgasm Delay, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sex, Sexting, Sexual Tension, Sort Of, Sort of case fic, Top Connor, Top!Connor, Wire Play, but not really, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-22 10:40:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16596308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Make_It_Worse/pseuds/Make_It_Worse
Summary: “Fond memory?” Connor’s voice cuts through Hank’s reverie, startling him out of his silence. He feels a blush threaten to creep up his neck when he realizes he’s been quiet for an abnormal amount of time.“Yeah,” he says gruffly, “You were in it.”Connor tilts his head, brown eyes emanating warmth, his tone is soft, “Not all of your memories of me are pleasant, Hank.”“They are now.” The smile that splits Connor’s face threatens to swallow Hank whole.--Hank doesn't understand how Connor can enjoy sex without having genitalia. Connor helps him understand in creative ways.--This contains a few references to part one. Part one also establishes how they got to here. You should probablyread it first.





	1. Where to Go From Here

There are times when Connor lets Hank forget he’s the stronger of the two. Like when Connor lets Hank struggle with a jar, prying it open on his own, or when Connor lets Hank take Sumo’s leash when the dog tries to take off after a squirrel, as if Connor doesn’t have the situation under control. This is not one of those times.

“Give it back, Hank.” Hank was fumbling with the coin while sitting on the couch, trying to make it dance across his knuckles as Connor often did. The end result was a lot of swearing and near drops. After a moment of further attempts to perform a coin trick, Connor makes a grab for it. By the luck of Hank’s poor dexterity and nearly dropping the coin again, he manages to keep it away from Connor. Connor, it would seem, couldn’t take Hank’s inexperience with the coin into consideration for his constructions.

“Hank.” He sounds mad, and it grabs Hank’s attention. Connor’s body is rigid, too severe for the situation.

“I was just…,” Hank’s not even sure why he picked it up. He saw the coin on the table and started fiddling with it, waiting for Connor to come out of the kitchen. He didn’t see the harm; it was just a coin. Irritation of his own at Connor’s absurd anger whirled to life in his stomach. He rises from the couch to gain the semblance of an advantage against the much shorter android.

Connor quirks an eyebrow as Hank raises the hand with the coin high into the air. A challenge of _come and get it_ burning behind his blue eyes. Hank knows what will happen or at least has a very good idea. Within seconds, Connor’s hand clamps in an iron grip around Hank’s arm, yanking the much larger man’s arm down to his level.

They’ve been dancing this tango for long enough that Hank knows he can’t win a fair fight against Connor. When Connor pulls, Hank goes down with it, using the force and momentum of his body to bring Connor down onto his lap as he collapses onto the couch. It’s graceless and comical, this flopping of limbs, but it’s enough to lift Connor out of his bad mood.

Hank pulls Connor’s face to his with his free hand, foreheads lightly touching, then runs his fingers through Connor’s hair, “Wanna tell me what that was all about?” Connor’s eyes are still closed, but he makes an affirmative noise.

Hank still isn’t used to Connor’s odd approach to social decorum. Connor demands certain courtesies of Hank, but he adheres to those same standards as well. Most people like Connor were insufferable assholes who couldn’t hold up their end of the bargain. It provides a much-needed balance in Hank’s life.

Hank stays quiet a moment while Connor formulates a response. He leans back, away from Hank, his hand never leaving Hank’s arm. “It’s mine,” Connor finally says, but Hank can tell there is more to come. Connor is struggling with something, a new concept. This wasn’t all that unusual for them. Connor took time to process new experiences and new feelings before he could form a firm opinion on the matter.

At a nudge from Hank, Connor opens his eyes and sighs in irritation, “It’s silly,” he finally admits, “It was the only thing that was mine. From before.” Understanding flares to life in Hank’s mind. To an android, recently considered property himself, having possessions was a heady thing. Connor had several belongings now, but the coin was his first and only possession prior to his deviancy.

Hank hands Connor the coin before shaking at the iron grip on his forearm, “Oh,” Connor says it like he didn’t realize he still had a hold on Hank. Connor loosens his fingers and rubs gently at the skin. In the three months since Connor forced Hank to address his feelings, they’d had many moments like this. A gentle back and forth, attempting to learn more about the other without bungling the entire thing.

“I’m sorry.” Connor’s ability to apologize far surpasses Hank’s. Anytime Hank makes a mistake, it almost takes an act of God to get him to admit it. Sometimes, Connor sits on his chest, an immovable weight, until Hank apologizes. On other occasions, Connor finds more interesting ways to pass the time. The memory of the first time Connor made Hank apologize plays in the back of both their minds. A slow smile spreads across Hank’s face, “Forgiven,” he mumbles gruffly before pushing Connor out of his lap.

Emotions and dealing with them may never get easier for Hank, but he’s trying.

Hank’s phone vibrates obnoxiously and he reaches for it, pressing various buttons to unlock it. He knows he could have a newfangled whatever the fuck phone implanted into his goddamned head, but that still freaks him out.

“Fucking hell, Fowler,” Connor’s sudden erect posture tells Hank that Connor is receiving the update as well straight to his brain. Connor’s LED circles a vibrant yellow several times, drawing Hank’s suspicion, “What’re you saying to him about me?”

Connor hesitates, clearly put out at being caught in a private email exchange about Hank, “He’s asking if you’re well.” Hank snorts in derision. He knows what that means. Fowler wants to know if he’s drunk.

“And?” Connor raises an eyebrow and twists his mouth down, unamused. “Alright, alright,” Hank waves him off; he knows Connor is honest. Hank is sober and ready for whatever bullshit case Fowler is sending his way.

It turns out to be much worse than he thought. The case itself is no big thing, but it requires Hank to work with Gavin Fucking Reed. Fowler asked Connor to stay behind to process evidence in case the officers who arrived at the scene missed something. It takes all of five minutes for Gavin to get under Hank’s skin.

_Living with the plastic prick now, eh?_

_Does he have one, Anderson? A prick?_

Hank is amazed when he makes it through his shift without killing Reed and hiding the body. Connor is waiting for him at the station, and a pang of warmth spikes through him. Gavin makes a loud, disgusted sound, but Hank ignores him in favor of getting the hell out of there.

“You didn’t have to wait for me,” Hank mumbles quietly on their walk to the car. Connor makes a _tsk_ sound, as if not waiting for Hank was a ridiculous notion.

The case hadn’t been particularly difficult nor the day overly long, but Hank can feel exhaustion consuming him. Probably the after effects of restraining himself from turning the breaking and entering scene into a homicide courtesy of Gavin’s stupid commentary. He shakes the half-cocked daydream of ridding the world of Reed from his head and parks his car.

Hank makes it through the front door before he feels Connor’s hand on his shoulder halting him, “Are you ok, Lieutenant?” The use of his rank sent a shiver through him. Connor doesn’t use it often outside of the station. Truth be told, he avoids referring to Hank at all at work for the primary reason that Connor saying _Lieutenant_ has very erotic implications for Hank.

 _I want to see you come, Lieutenant_ whispered at the back of Hank’s mind. Feeling Hank go tense, Connor eases his grip, “You seem upset.” Hank exhales and leans backward into Connor’s chest, feeling firm arms wrap around him.

“Not stressed, just annoyed with office politics.” Hank can feel Connor wrinkle his nose next to his ear.

“Hank, you haven’t been political in several years. Your voting record—,” Hank’s soft chuckle silences Connor.

“I meant it would probably look bad if I killed Reed,” Connor lets a pleased _hmm_ run through his body before responding.

“Probably, but I would help you dispose of him in the most efficient manner possible.” Hank barks out a single _HA_ at that statement before unwinding Connor’s arms from his torso and sauntering off to the kitchen in search of something resembling dinner. Connor settles himself at the table, picking up Hank’s partially filled in crossword puzzle. He is halfway through it before asking, “Hank, you do realize an eight-word answer for ‘Words after _Oh, No!_ ’ is not, ‘Fuuuuuck’?”

Hank snorts before replying, “Don’t let the crossword tell you how to live your life, kid.” Hank tries to settle into the easy silence they usually share. Still, something Gavin said nagged at the back of his mind.

“Connor?” The android doesn’t respond right away. When Hank pulls his head out of the refrigerator to look at him, he sees Connor’s nose is half an inch away from the puzzle.

“There are two errors in this puzzle—,”

“Yeah, Connor, I’m shit at the crossword—,”

“No, I mean, the publisher made two mista—is something the matter?” The abrupt transition takes Hank by surprise. He’s spent the last several months trying to get his heart rate under control for a resemblance of balance in their relationship. He didn’t feel the telltale pounding of blood in his ears that presaged a spike in his heart rate.

“Yeah, m’fine. Why d’you ask?” Connor appears to consider him for a moment before declaring,

“You are making your sex face.” Hank splutters horribly, trying to reconcile his musings about Gavin Reed with Connor’s interpretation of his _sex face_.

“I do _not_ make a sex face. This is just my face, Connor.” Connor smiles toothily at him and Hank isn’t sure if the android is trying to get a rise out of him or being serious, “…Do I?”

Hank’s regret is immediate as Connor nods enthusiastically and pulls a grumpy, brooding expression, “It sort of looks like this, but your eyes do something I cannot imitate. You usually pursue sex within fifteen minutes of making the face.” Hank groans at the realization that he looks like an ill-tempered grouch when he’s aroused. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Pushing his embarrassment away for another time, Hank shakes his head, “No, Connor. Nothing is wrong, and I’m definitely not thinking about sex…well.” He stops abruptly. He was _sort of_ thinking about sex. Connor was waiting for him to continue, looking at him expectantly, “I was thinking about something Reed said. Most of what he says is…worthless, but it did make me wonder…” Hank’s voiced faded off into nothingness, unsure how to pose the question.

When Hank’s brain fails him like this, Connor usually supplies the next cue for their conversations. He does not disappoint. “What did he say, Hank?” Having the crux of his struggle to formulate words thrust under his nose wasn’t as helpful as usual, however.

“Fuck it. Fine. He asked me if you have a dick.” Connor wrinkles his nose at the term; he still struggles to use slang, particularly profane slang.

“You know I don’t, Hank.”

“I know, I know.” Hank waves his hands to indicate that’s not what’s on his mind, “It just got me thinking. You say you like sex, that you enjoy it, but I don’t see how.” Connor tries to suppress a sigh and fails. The simulation of irritation catches Hank’s attention. Connor’s well for patience is about ten times deeper than Hanks, but they’d had this conversation several times before.

Hank’s initial consternation with Connor’s lack of familiar sex organs quickly devolved into concern that Connor couldn’t possibly enjoy sex. Connor pointed out on several occasions that _he_ initiated their first sexual encounter, not Hank, but it couldn’t take root in Hank’s brain.

He’s had several months to mull over what his actual problem was with their situation, but putting the thought into words was proving more challenging than usual.

“I mean…Jesus, fuck, all right. When I say I enjoy sex, you can see it. You have irrefutable evidence. When you say you enjoy sex, I can’t see it. There is no sign that it’s doing anything for you at all. It’s…fuck, kid. It makes me feel like a lecherous old man taking advantage of someone who doesn’t know the first thing about sex.” Connor’s mouth pulls down slightly in the way it always does when Hank makes self-deprecating comments, but he makes a _hmm_ sound as he considers his words.

“I know a lot about sex, Hank.” This earns the android an eye roll, but he continues undeterred, “I think I understand your issue. My lack of erections and ejaculation confounds your ability to comprehend how I enjoy sex.”

There is a brief moment of silence before Hank says weakly, “Sure, you can put it that way, too.” Connor has the unnerving habit of discussing sex like a technical manual for troubleshooting a computer. He’s methodical and almost clinical at times, unbalancing Hank. Of course, the discomfort could also be the result of Hank’s proclivity to avoid talking about sex or relationships at all.

“I’m not sure if there is an easy way to show you that I enjoy it.” Hank isn’t sure why he feels disappointment. It’s not new information that there isn’t anything between Connor’s thighs other than a fucking _drainage system_ in case of accidental internal damage or leaking fluids. He’s seen Connor naked often enough to know where every freckle dots his body like a puzzle meant for Hank to solve. He’d traced them often enough, pressing constellations into Connor’s skin.

Connor’s ease with his own body made Hank uncomfortable at first, even a little jealous. Connor’s body was firm in all the right places, lacking flaws or other conventionally unattractive marks. Hank’s body was a slew of tattoos, scars, and other imperfections inflicted by life.

In the months between where Hank and Connor began to where they are now, Hank’s discomfort with his body had waned slightly. He ate better, took Sumo for longer walks, and drank less. His body was less soft than it had been, but he still felt intolerably unattractive next to Connor’s pristine perfection.

The first time Connor had tried to join him in the shower, Hank had shrieked like a proper southern belle who’d been caught naked by a suitor. If he’d had any, he would have clutched at his pearls in horror. What he had managed was to yank the shower curtain around his body like a makeshift dress. The fact that it was clear dashed any attempt at concealing his nakedness.

Recognizing Hank’s discomfort, Connor asked ahead of time before attempting to join him in the shower again. Hank had tried to wear a t-shirt then, swearing it was normal. Connor had pursed his lips and leveled a look at Hank that made him feel about 10 inches tall. He took off the shirt and threw it grumpily to the floor.

“Fond memory?” Connor’s voice cuts through Hank’s reverie, startling him out of his silence. He feels a blush threaten to creep up his neck when he realizes he’s been quiet for an abnormal amount of time.

“Yeah,” he says gruffly, “You were in it.”

Connor tilts his head, brown eyes emanating warmth, his tone is soft, “Not all of your memories of me are pleasant, Hank.”

“They are now.” The smile that splits Connor’s face threatens to swallow Hank whole.

It’s a simple statement, but a significant one for him. Hank Anderson does not do grand gestures or make profound declarations of love but sometimes he lets his feelings have their moment in the sun.

Connor clears his throat, an unnecessary action that indicates he’s uncertain about something, “What I meant was I can’t be sure. I have to do some research.” Hank’s face must look as confused as he feels because Connor continues on to clarify, “How to show you that I enjoy sex.” Hank feels a small smile tug at the corners of his eyes.

“Ok, kid. Knock yourself out. Let me know what you find.” Connor’s posture changes, righting itself to an unnatural straightness. His face goes blank as his LED begins a constant slow churn of yellow. “I didn’t mean right _now_ ,” Hank huffs gruffly, muttering about overeager androids. Connor shakes his head slightly as if his train of thought came loose like dandelion seeds in a summer breeze. His LED returns to its usual serene blue as he makes a small sound of acquiescence for Hank’s comfort.

Hank almost forgets Connor’s research in the days that pass. Not that he doesn’t want to know what the android can dig up on his ability to have sex, but work consumes most of his focus. With the revolution in the not-so-distant past, anti-android sentiment is still strong; so is android-on-human crime. Hank knows it was inevitable. The president declared androids as equals to humans, but that didn’t mean the human population took the message to heart.

Hank saw a lot more of his desk than he cared to that week. The break room ran out of coffee on the fourth day of the entire precinct pulling overtime to deal with the sudden slew of cases, Gavin Reed smelled like a walking ashtray, and Connor’s LED was stuck on a perpetual rotating yellow.

“It doesn’t mean I’m distressed, Lieutenant. It can mean any number of things. It can mean I am analyzing, processing, communicating—,” Hank interrupts with a wave of his hand.

“I know that,” he sighs, feeling resigned, “But it can also mean you’re upset. You’ve been working with that fucking prick all day.” Reed’s name goes unmentioned as Hank runs a large hand over his face, feeling the unevenness of his bristly chin. “Fuck, I need to shave.” Connor’s hand ghosts up to Hank’s face, tugging slightly on his beard.

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t.” Hank’s heart hammered in his chest. He resisted the initial urge to frantically look around to see if anyone was watching, but embarrassment began to creep up his body none-the-less. Connor leaned in a fraction and whispered, “No one can see us, _Lieutenant_.” A full body shiver gripped Hank’s body.

Hank wasn’t hiding whatever he and Connor were doing—relationship was too difficult of a word for him to say—but he wasn’t broadcasting it at work either. He was pretty certain there were rules about dating subordinates, and laws about androids in the workplace weren’t set in stone yet. He didn’t want to get Connor or himself into trouble so they maintained a professional demeanor at work.

The touch wasn’t overtly intimate, but Hank wouldn’t let just anyone stroke his goddamned beard.

“I discovered something interesting, Lieutenant. In my research.” It takes Hank’s floundering brain several seconds to decipher what Connor means. Hank can’t suppress the panicked flit of his eyes, searching for anyone who might be close enough to hear this conversation. The more sensible part of his brain knows that Connor won’t put them in a problematic situation, but the rest of his brain, the part that controls all the swearing, is losing its shit.

“What, uh, what did you find?” His brain screams _traitor_ at the question, but his heart pulses in a singularly pleasing way. The corner of Connor’s mouth ticks upward in a manner that Hank recognizes. Activating _Be a Little Shit_ protocol in 3…2…

“You will have to wait until we get home to find out.” The air wheezes out of Hank, who is painfully aware they won’t be going home for several more hours.

“Why in the fuck did you mention it at all then?” He meant for it to come out as a hiss, but, to his horror, it sounds much more like a whine.

“I like to watch you when you’re like this.” The comment shoots through Hank’s body, pooling just below his stomach. He makes a soft sound somewhere between a groan and a sigh, “Careful, Lieutenant. We don’t want our colleagues to find us in this state.”

“What state?” He says it gruffly, but it lacks intimidation.

“Aroused.” Connor’s smirk broadens into an impish smile as a blush suffuses Hank’s face. His fingers drift up again, stopping just shy of stroking Hank’s cheek. His voice remains low, “You blush such a pretty color, Lieutenant.” Having never received a compliment involving the term _pretty_ before, Hank can feel the flush extend to the roots of his hair.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters at Connor’s pleased expression before stomping back to his desk in high agitation.

The rest of their shift feels like it drags on into eternity. Connor works as if they hadn’t just discussed having sex later tonight within a stone’s throw of Fowler’s office. It’s not as if they’re new to sex, but there’re several things they haven’t done or tried. Most of it came down to Hank being stubborn and confused about Connor’s lack of genitalia.

Connor’s use of the term sex was rather undefined as well. Connor disliked using terms like _blowjobs_ or _jerking off_ as if his processors rejected the crude terminology. He used it to indicate any sexual activity, and Hank never bothered to correct him. As it was, they _hadn’t_ had sex in the traditional sense Hank was used to. Connor’s demeanor and tone promised something more than getting to second or third base and Hank isn’t entirely sure which he feels more: terror or desire.

He drifts from case to case, unable to focus, willing the clock to pick up speed and fast-forward them to the end of their shift. With an aggravated sigh, he pushes away from his desk to wander to the break room for some coffee. He’s already wired, but he has to do something kinetic to keep from exploding. The walk to the break room does nothing to ease his nerves, but at least he’s not sitting directly across from Connor.

A soft click hammers down his spine. He turns to see Connor remove his hand from the now-closed door and make his way over to the small refrigerator containing extra thirium packets for the androids that still work at the station. With predominately glass walls, the break room isn’t private, but the proximity to Connor and the shuttered off silence of the precinct overwhelms Hank’s senses.

“Connor, what’re ya doing?” Connor’s hand pauses over a third packet of thirium.

“I’m replenishing my thirium supplies, Lieutenant.”

Curiosity creeps in and crowds the tension in Hank’s body. “You’re not running low. You haven’t done anything to need all that.”

With an exaggerated look at the closed door, Connor turns his head back to Hank, a slow smile taking over his face. “My research has indicated I will need it.”

Hank swallows hard, equal parts confused and terrified, “Why?”

Connor’s smile is almost predatory and Hank takes several steps back until his hips are pressing into the counter behind him. Connor takes a moment to consider him before answering, “Because it will be different this time.”

Hank opens his mouth to ask _why_ again, but the word refuses to come out. His jaw hangs open stupidly as Connor advances, “You often use colorful language to explain yourself, Lieutenant. I don’t typically swear myself, but I feel it fits the situation.” He says it simply as he examines the thirium packets, waiting for Hank to take the bait.

“What the fuck, Con—,” Connor’s eyes snap up to meet Hank’s, the breath stuttering to a halt in the larger man's chest.

“Yes, that.” Confusion wars in Hank’s head, trying to find a foothold among the chaos of his overworked brain. Connor waits a beat before continuing, “I plan to _fuck_ you, Lieutenant,” he says the word softly, but the meaning is different from his normal casual use of the word _sex_ , “and I want you to watch me enjoy it while I do so.”


	2. Text Me, Tease You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The photo is grainy at first, struggling against the limited bandwidth. Hank squints at it trying to make out what he’s seeing as the pixels slowly form into something recognizable. When the image loads abruptly in perfect resolution, Hank nearly drops his phone. 
> 
> He lets out a mortified, “Christ,” before frantically trying to close out of the picture. It’s a picture of him. A very intimate picture of him that Connor had clearly taken with his own goddamned eyeballs.

_I want you to watch me…_ It’s a constant refrain in Hank’s mind for the rest of their shift. He tries and fails to drink his coffee four times before his shaking hands end up spilling some of it on his pants. A sound of pure frustration bubbles up his throat as he shoves himself away from his computer. Connor raises an eyebrow at him from across his desk, and Hank offers him a grumbled, “Bathroom,” before walking down the hall and yanking open the restroom door.

Hank wets and wads up some paper towels to dab at the stain on his pants, but he only succeeds in making a larger wet spot. Sighing, he lifts his leg toward the wall-mounted dryer and punches the button. It splutters to life, exuding a warm heat. After five minutes of trying to dry out his pant leg, his cellphone vibrates. Reaching around awkwardly while still keeping his leg in the air close to the dryer, he tugs the cellphone out of his back pocket.

_Is there a problem, Lieutenant?_

Hank rolls his eye with more irritation than he actually feels and types out a quick, “I’m fine. Trying to dry my pants.” His phone pings almost immediately with a reply.

_The bathroom seems like an odd choice of location for doing laundry._

Before Hank can snark back a reply, another text comes through.

_Detective Reed just asked if you fell in the toilet._

The dizzying speed of Connor’s texting is puzzling. He’s texted with Connor before and the responses were never this quick. No one could type that fast, not even a state of the art android. He’s seen Connor receive case updates from Fowler straight to his brain before, but this was new. Balancing on one leg, Hank props himself against the wall to be able to use both of his thumbs, “How’re you texting so fast?”

As he expected, Connor’s answer was almost instantaneous,

_I no longer have to use the physical cellphone the police department supplied me. It was a precautionary measure used to track my work-related correspondences prior to the revolution._

That sounded like a fancy way to say, “The feds didn’t trust me farther than they could throw my heavy ass,” but Connor is always more eloquent than Hank. He’s in the middle of texting back that he’ll be out in a minute when another message from Connor comes through. It’s a picture and it’s slow to load in the shitty bathroom signal.

The photo is grainy at first, struggling against the limited bandwidth. Hank squints at it trying to make out what he’s seeing as the pixels slowly form into something recognizable. When the image loads abruptly in perfect resolution, Hank nearly drops his phone.

He lets out a mortified, “Christ,” before frantically trying to close out of the picture. It’s a picture of him. A very _intimate_ picture of him that Connor had clearly taken with his own goddamned eyeballs.

As his frenetic heartbeat returns to something approaching normal, he opens the text again. He starts to type then stops several times debating how to reply when a new text from Connor interrupts his thoughts.

_I have many pictures like this, Lieutenant._

Hank groans out, “Oh, fuck me,” before typing back a hasty, “Absolutely not.” Connor’s reply is immediate. It’s another fucking picture followed up with,

_I enjoyed that evening very much._

“We are at WORK!” Hank texts back in a futile hope to quell the onslaught of brain sexts coming from Connor.

_I can multitask without issue, Lieutenant._

At some point during the exchange, Hank forgot about his stupid pant leg. An uncomfortable burning sensation brought his attention back to the reason he was in the bathroom in the first place. He drops his leg away from the dryer to inspect it.

“Oh, hell.” His pants were long dry and had taken on that slightly bleached appearance of overheated fabric. He would’ve been better off with the coffee stain. Hank waffles away another ten minutes in the bathroom before deciding that nobody likes a coward. He isn’t going to hide from Connor for the rest of the day.

As he settles back into his chair, he chances a glance at Connor from across their desks. His head is angled a few degrees to the left as he lightly touches the computer screen to gather data. He seems absorbed in whatever new information he’s receiving. Hank jumps slightly when his phone vibrates on his desk.

_See? Multitasking._

With a scowl, Hank tries to lose himself in their most recent cases. He succeeds for about an hour, but the cases are no less frustrating just because he’s giving them an excessive amount of attention. He keeps circling back to one case in particular, as if some significant detail may jump out at him. It’s no longer in their jurisdiction, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d seen a similar case before. The particulars weren’t exact, but it felt like more than coincidence.

Realizing that staring at it wasn’t bringing back any memories, Hank stands and stretches, drawing Connor’s eyes. Hank feels his phone vibrate again. He pulls it out of his pocket and very deliberately sets it on his desk while giving Connor a look before walking away to peruse the physical archives.

 _So much for not hiding_ , he thinks to himself. At least he won’t have Connor driving him to distraction with his brain pictures.

Finally feeling like he had scored a point in whatever workplace game they were playing, Hank’s victory is short-lived. The archive room is dusty and has the moldy smell of dying paper. Hank sighs before wandering over to a filing cabinet labeled _Unsolved Homicides – 2027_ and pulls a few of his old cases. There were a lot of murders during his tenure on the Red Ice Task Force and he hadn’t been able to devote as much attention as he would’ve liked to them at the time.

A couple of hours later, his initiative hadn’t earned him much more than a crick in his neck from hunching over the lone table, several case files spread before him. With a disappointed groan, Hank pushes his fingers through his hair before running his hand down the back of his neck and over his shoulder, trying to work out the strain.

“There you are.” Hank jerks clumsily in his chair, nearly unseating himself.

“Christ, kid. You about gave me a heart attack.” Hank turns his head back to the case file in his hand before tilting back into the chair and tossing the folder onto the table, “I thought I might’ve had a lead. Something familiar about one of the cases. I can’t put my finger on it.”

Connor makes a sympathetic but quiet _hmm_ , before leaning over Hank to pick up the discarded file. Hank feels Connor’s chest press lightly against his back. The tension he had tried to conceal under the weight of their caseload returns in full force.

_I want you to watch me_

Feeling heat creep up his face, Hank all but launches himself out of the space between the desk and Connor, “I’ll just put these back then.” Connor maintains his hold on the file in his hand, scanning it intently. It takes Hank more time than it should to put away the remaining documents. His hands are shaking and he almost drops a file on more than one occasion.

Connor’s silence is unnerving. There’s only so much to read on the case file, Hank knows, so he’s not certain what it is the android is looking for. Hank rolls his head from shoulder to shoulder and feels a pleasing pop before he turns to leave the archive, maneuvering around Connor. Connor’s arm extends, bracing against the wall, blocking Hank’s path.

His timing is perfect, and Hank’s chest collides into the iron bar that is Connor’s arm. He makes a soft _oof_ sound before stepping back a pace.

“ _Lieutenant_.” Connor’s voice is warm and saturated with want. His eyes are still on the file, scrutinizing, his focused expression incongruous with his tone. Hank tries to will his heartbeat to remain steady, succeeding in an uncomfortable arrhythmia instead. Hank waits, rooted to the spot, for Connor to continue.

“You shouldn’t crack your neck like that.” He murmurs it like a warm caress, but the actual words remain laughably at odds with his tone. Hank grunts in irritation before nudging at Connor’s arm, seeking permission to pass. He doesn’t move.

“You’ve put a remarkable amount of effort into avoiding me today, Lieutenant,” he sets the file down on the desk and rearranges it slightly with his forefinger and thumb, “I want to go over this case with you.” He gestures toward the chair while lifting the hand pressed against the wall and moving it to grip Hank’s shoulder, guiding him.

Hank collapses into the chair with more force than necessary, a show of bravado that he doesn’t feel. He can sense Connor’s looming presence behind him, putting his neck hairs on end. Hank scoots the chair in slightly, trying to gain some distance. He sees Connor’s right hand in his peripheral before it comes to rest on the table, the weight of his chest returning full force on Hank’s back.

“I was wondering, Lieutenant, what it was about this case that drew your attention?” Hank hears the question, but Connor’s voice so close to his ear has his brain tripping over itself. He tries to rise, but Connor’s left hand on his shoulder keeps him in place. When he attempts to turn and look at Connor, the same hand grabs his jaw lightly and redirects it back to the desk, “Look at the file, Lieutenant.”

Hank realizes with startling clarity that today is the first day Connor has intentionally touched him at work. There had been reactionary touches, of course. A stabilizing hand, a grip of restraint, but those weren’t deliberate. Not like earlier today; not like now. He tries to concentrate on the case in front of him, but all his eyes seem to want to focus on are Connor’s fingers, one of which is delicately tapping the desk.

 _What fresh hell is this?_ His brain is scrambling for purchase, but no thought seems likely to hold his mental weight. He feels like this is some sort of a test, but Connor doesn’t play games like that. When Connor says something, he almost always means exactly that. Hank knows Connor wants him to just look at the damn file, but his presence is overwhelming. Perhaps that’s why he’s never touched him before now. Maybe he knows this is the effect he has on Hank.

“I d’know, kid. Like I said, something felt familiar about it. Now that I’m looking at it, I don’t know why. The locations, the times of death, the murder weapon—everything is different.” Hank leans his head back to sigh, but it turns into a strangled sound at the back of his throat when he bumps into Connor’s chest. Connor ignores it.

“What were the other files you were looking through? Do you remember their case numbers?” Hank wants to peer suspiciously at Connor, but he’s pretty sure that will result in another face grab. He has a sneaking suspicion Connor doesn’t want to give him an opportunity to stand up and escape from the archives.

“Yeah, they were the two right after this one. Their numbers are sequential.” Connor makes a low humming sound that Hank associates with research. He realizes Connor is looking up those cases. He knows Hank is a good cop and that his hunches are usually worth investigating. He’s told him as much before. Why this simple fact makes Hank’s chest swell is beyond him, and he tries to stuff the warm glowing feeling of it down.

“You’re right. These cases do have unifying factors.” Hank jerks against Connor’s chest, startled. Connor doesn’t sound thrilled about the connection. Hank’s on the verge of asking him when Connor starts speaking again, “You were the responding officer to all of these cases.”

Hank groans in exasperation, “Yeah, I know that Connor. They’re _my_ cas—,” Connor cuts him off with an irritated flick of his wrist before continuing.

“Captain Fowler cosigned on all of them when they went cold.” Hank didn’t like where this train of thought was going. He and Jeffrey may not get along well now, but there was a time when they were friends.

“Now hold on a minute. All of those cases had fuck all to go on. We were up to our necks in Red Ice bullshit. Besides, _I_ signed them, too.” Hank was trying to keep his anger in check, but Connor had come a hair’s width away from flat-out indicating Hank and Fowler were in cahoots on some murder conspiracy.

“Yes, those are not the commonalities that concern me.” The sudden anger rushes out of Hank and he sags into the chair.

“Something else then? Something that ties all of those murders besides me and the Captain?” Whatever it is, Connor clearly doesn’t like it and that’s enough to grab Hank’s attention. It’s rare that Connor comes to the conclusion that he dislikes something without deliberation.

“Yes, the person who claimed jurisdiction when they went cold.” Hank sucks in a deep breath.

“Well now. That’s a little more to go on. Not particularly concrete, though. Who was it?” Connor doesn’t answer for a moment. Hank tries to push back away from the desk, but Connor’s body is an immovable wall.

“It’s not another department. He’s not an officer,” his tone sounds like he’s leading up to something Hank will definitely not like, his hand returning to Hank’s shoulder, “In fact, he works for the FBI.” Hank tries to explode up out of the seat, but Connor’s unyielding grip keeps him in the chair.

“Fucking Perkins.”

They spend the last remaining hours of their shift pulling any cases claimed by Perkins including a connection to both Hank and Captain Fowler. There are a disturbing number of them. They wind up sitting cross-legged on the floor facing each other with case files spread between them.

“How the fuck did we not notice?” Hank asks for the umpteenth time, fisting his hands into his hair before running them down his face.

Connor humors him again, “Which is it this time? You and Captain Fowler or you and I?” Hank sighs in irritation.

“Both.” Hank had alternated for the past two hours between wondering who was the stupidest among the three for not catching the connection. Connor tries to hide a smile by ducking his head to reread a file, but Hank sees it.

“Want to share with the class? What’s so funny?” Connor gives him a placating look, but Hank is bound and determined to be a grump.

“Nothing is funny. You’re just very…animated when you’re upset.” Hank recognizes the look on Connor’s face.

“You’ve got some seriously weird kinks, you know that?” He lets out a sigh before muttering to himself, “Animated. First the blushing and now he likes it when I’m _animated_.”

Connor’s soft laugh catches his attention, “You know I can hear you, correct?” Hank roughly opens a case file he already knows by heart and pretends to read it. When he feels like he has his flushing face under control, he glances up at Connor. He’s regarding him with an unreadable expression, his head tilted slightly.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Connor’s LED circles yellow, no doubt looking up the idiom, and a slow, predatory smile spreads across his face. Alarm bells of self-preservation go off in Hank’s head, but he’s learned by now that he doesn’t stand a chance against a determined Connor. Connor sets down the folder in his hands before leaning forward. The space between them isn’t large, and Connor is halfway across it before Hank realizes he is _crawling_ and there is nothing docile about it.

Connor’s advance is slow and his gaze threatens to devour Hank, brown eyes boring into blue. He doesn’t stop when he reaches Hank, forcing the larger man to lean back onto his elbows. Connor hovers over him, an amused and lazy smile on his lips.

_We are at work._

_We can’t do this._

_Please do this._

Hank’s mind races with several things he wants to say. Before he can figure out which to choose, Connor extends his arm. Hank watches his hand until it’s almost to his face and firmly shuts his eyes. He can feel Connor’s chest close to his own, his heart beating a panicked tattoo. Hank hears papers rustling and opens his eyes to see Connor sit back on his heels, thumbing through a case file. Hank stares at Connor in disbelief.

“Thank you, Lieutenant, I wanted to cross-reference this—,”

“Don’t do that!” It bursts from Hank equal parts irritated and needy. He expects Connor to deny any wrongdoing or to play dumb.

Instead, he gets, “Don’t hide from me and I won’t have to tease you so.” He says it pleasantly, eyes scanning the file in front of him intently.

Hank’s mouth falls open a fraction in stunned silence. After a few moments of his jaw soundless opening and closing, he spits out, “What do you call sending me all those pictures?”

“So you admit you were hiding?” Connor has always been better at verbal sparring. He knows how to lead Hank into a trap, how to unbalance him when he thinks he has the upper hand, and how to work him over into agonizing desire as a result.

“What? No! You are…you…” Hank’s hands rotate in the air, trying to conjure what exactly he thought Connor was, to no avail. He settles on an aggravated grunt.

Connor puts the file aside and leans forward, steepling his fingers together before tilting them in Hank’s direction, “And you are animated.” Hank huffs and looks away, feeling a blush consume his face. Connor makes a quiet sound of pleasure before murmuring, “Ah, another one of my favorite things.”

Hank tosses a glare in Connor’s general direction, avoiding making eye contact. The rest of their shift passes in relative quiet, both only speaking when they find something of interest in the case files. After pulling so much overtime, Hank is more than ready to go home.

The drive is quiet and the silence fills with the sensual tension that had dogged Hank for most of the day. Connor resumes their usual evening routine, asking Hank what he wants to eat, shooting down his unhealthy preferences, before settling on something with only a moderate amount of sodium in it. Hank eats while Connor attacks the latest crossword puzzle, pausing occasionally to pet Sumo’s head. After an hour of covertly watching Connor read a book while he pretends to watch TV, Hank is ready to burst.

“Connor, what the fuck?” The question comes out a lot harsher than Hank intended and he has the good graces to look abashed when Connor’s head jerks around to look at him, “I mean, today, you were…I thought…” Hank trails off into an embarrassed silence. He rises to shut off the TV and turns to face Connor.

Connor considers him for a moment before setting aside his book and speaking, “Your behavior today led me to believe you are uninterested in what I suggested earlier.” _Suggested_ Hank’s mind snorts. More like _demanded_ , but Hank wasn’t going to argue that point. Before he can reply, Connor continues, “You spent most of the day hiding—,”

“I was not hiding. I was…,” Hank’s voice trailed off weakly while his mind tries to land on the correct word for what he had been doing, “Fine. I was hiding.” Connor inclines his head at Hank, recognizing the admission.

“Like I said, it does not seem like you are interested. I don’t want to make you do something you don’t _want_ to do.” This isn’t the first time Connor has forced Hank to make embarrassing admissions about his sexual desires, and he has a sneaking suspicion that Connor does it on purpose. He’s not embarrassed by the want so much as having to say it out loud. Romance and emotions are not his forte.  

“I am.” He mutters it, feeling his face burn red as he says it.

“You are what?” Connor quips back and Hank grimaces. Connor was never one to let him off so easy. Not least because Connor enjoyed watching Hank blush.

“I am interested.” Hank says it louder this time, but he’s almost certain Connor won’t take the bait. When it comes to who can wait out the other’s lust, Hank is the consummate loser.

 “Then ask me.” As quickly as the blood had rushed to his face, Hank can feel it draining just as fast.

“What?” They’ve been here before, in this exact position. Connor, perfectly in control and poised to deliver a devastating blow of lust. Hank, expectant and willing but wildly unprepared. Hank sees a slight shiver run through Connor as he rises from the couch. When their eyes meet, Hank can see determination crash into desire behind hungry brown eyes.

Connor advances and Hank feels himself take an involuntary step back. His knees connect with the living room chair and he collapses back into it. Connor’s hands brace against the arms of it, leaning in, “Ask me to fuck you, _Lieutenant_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more bottom Hank. 
> 
> You can find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake).


	3. Let Me In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” Connor’s hands start running the loofa across Hank’s chest, creating minute bubbles in the hair there. “After today? Just now in the living room? You’re not gonna…” he trails off, sweeping his hand across his lower body indicating the very blatant show of arousal bobbing in the warm water. 
> 
> “No, and neither are you.”
> 
> __
> 
> Spoiler alert:  
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> They're gonna do it. /immaturity/

Hank feels the fatigue of the workweek war with his desire to give into Connor. He is exhausted but he very much doubts his overwrought mind would let him sleep. He’s on the verge of acquiescence when Connor’s voice interrupts his thoughts.

“There’s no rush, you know,” Hank’s mouth, still slightly slack, tries to argue but Connor continues talking over his sound of protest, “We have the entire weekend.” Hank had forgotten that, after all his overtime, Fowler had granted him an actual weekend reprieve. Perks of being a Lieutenant, he guesses.

Connor rights himself, letting go of his grip on the armchair and extends a hand to Hank. When Hank accepts the help, he feels Connor tighten his grip and begin to pull him out of the room.

“Connor, I can’t go to sleep like this.” He tries to keep the annoyance out of his voice, but, really, it’s Connor’s fault he’s been rocking a semi-erection for most of the day. Connor looks at Hank from over his shoulder and raises an eyebrow.

“Is that so?” He sounds amused but offers nothing else by way of explanation. He leads Hank into the bathroom and drops his hand in favor of turning on the tub.

“A bath?” Hank wrinkles his nose, partly because he’s a grown man, and partly because they’ve been here before, “Think you can avoid soaking me in frigid water this time?”

Connor makes an amused sound as he watches the tub fill, “From what I understand of it, a cold shower may actually help your condition, Hank.” He pauses for a moment, gauging the water’s temperature, before he turns to lock eyes with Hank, “Undress.” It’s not a request, but Hank is more than willing to comply.

As he attempts to pull his shirt over his head without unbuttoning it, he feels Connor walk past him. “Where’re you going?” He mumbles it through his shirt. When Connor doesn’t answer, Hank redoubles his efforts to remove the shirt, but the button refuses to go over his nose. He huffily yanks it back down to spend the extra five seconds to unbutton the top button before ripping the shirt over his head with far too much force.

Connor walks back in as Hank starts working on removing his pants, arms loaded with various candles. Hank eyes them warily before asking, “What’re those for?”

Connor smiles at him lightly, “You need to relax, Hank.” He starts placing them around the bathroom on the vanity, on top of the trashcan lid, and on the toilet. Once he starts lighting them, Hank gets the gist.

“You romantic little shit.”

Connor spares him a withering glance, “The lighting in this bathroom is not conducive to relaxation.” Once he’s satisfied with the candles, he turns out the light, “Get in.” Connor gestures at the tub, but Hank feels like a lumbering, dumb bear. He watches Connor undress in the dim candlelight and is transfixed. He’s seen Connor naked at least one hundred times, but, at his age, he’s learned to stop and appreciate what’s in front of him.

Connor is watching Hank expectantly so he finally does as Connor asked. He steps into the tub by the drain, trying to figure out how the both of them are supposed to fit in the thing. They’ve showered in it together before, but the logistics of two people bathing in it hit Hank full force. He squats down to turn off the water when he feels Connor step into the tub behind him. Before he can turn around to argue they won’t both fit, he feels Connor’s hands ghost up his sides, tugging him back.

_Oh._

His back is flush to Connor’s chest, thin legs rising to bended knees on either side of Hank’s torso. Hank feels Connor reach for the loofa and soap resting on the corner edge of the tub. He can feel his heart rate increasing, and his brain exhales _fucking finally_ in the background of his mind.

A sharp tap on his chest from two of Connor’s fingers rip him out of his daze, “None of that.” Hank grunts and tries to turn and look at Connor, but the compactness of the tub renders his attempts futile, “You’re supposed to be _relaxing_ , Hank.”

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” Connor’s hands start running the loofa across Hank’s chest, creating minute bubbles in the hair there. “After today? Just now in the living room? You’re not gonna…” he trails off, sweeping his hand across his lower body indicating the very blatant show of arousal bobbing in the warm water.

“No, and neither are you.” It feels like a punch in the gut. Every fiber of his being rebels at the notion.

“You can’t stop me,” he knows it sounds petulant as the words leave his throat.

In response, Connor releases his hold on the loofa and wraps his hands around Hank’s arms, “Yes I can, but that’s not how I’d rather spend the evening.” His grip isn’t tight, but Hank can’t break it. He slumps against Connor after a few seconds of obligatory struggle, more for his pride than any belief that he could override Connor’s herculean strength.

“Why?” He says it with as much bite as he can muster, but Connor ignores his tone in favor of resuming his exploration of Hank’s torso with the loofa. He makes a little _hmm_ sound, considering how to answer the question.

“Because you are tired _and_ ,” he gives the word more emphasis than normal to prevent Hank from interrupting, “it will make tomorrow much, much better.” Hank lets out an irritated grunt and he feels Connor smile.

“You’re gonna kill me, kid. You know that?” Connor’s hands start to rub small circles into the meaty flesh of Hank’s chest, releasing tension he hadn’t realized was there.

“That’s not my intention, Hank.” He can hear the smirk in his voice, but the hands roaming toward his neck distract him. He lets out a groan when Connor grinds his knuckles into the aching spot at the nape of his neck.

Connor pushes Hank forward slightly to gain access to his back. Nimble fingers rub up along both sides of his spine, spreading out to work into his broad shoulders. Connor works his hands back toward Hank’s neck before one hand snakes into Hank’s hair, fingers digging in slightly and spreading wide until he’s palming Hank’s head.

His hand’s roam Hank’s upper body, finding small aches and working at them until they release. Hank feels his panicked arousal diminish under Connor’s ministrations, the need for physical attention somewhat sated. He knows he still wants more, but Connor’s made it clear he’s not interested. He could wait for Connor to go into stasis, but there was something wholly unsatisfying about masturbating in secret in his own damn house.

As these thoughts drift across Hank’s mind, he feels the first telltale sign of warmth spread through his body. Sleep had come to claim him.

“Connor?” Connor makes a sound of acknowledgment, “I’m gonna fall asleep if you keep that up.” Connor makes a pleased sound bordering on a growl. He nudges Hank forward before standing and grabbing their towels off the rack on the wall. Hank’s body feels like mush as he stands clumsily. He startles slightly when Connor reaches around him to encase him in a towel. He grabs onto Connor’s arm to stabilize himself.

Connor offers him a small smile before turning and walking toward the bedroom. Hank follows and leans against the doorway while Connor shimmies into pajama pants. They’re an old pair of Hank’s. Connor has some of his own, but he tends to gravitate toward Hank’s old clothes. They’re oversized and Connor has to roll them a couple of times to avoid walking all over the hems.

Hank pulls back the covers and collapses onto the bed, groping for his pajama pants left on the floor from the night before. He can feel sleep lurking at the corners of his eyes. He feels Connor slide into the bed next to him and cover his body with blankets. Some nights, Connor doesn’t come to bed. He doesn’t need to sleep and he’s in the process of reading every book Hank owns. Hank’s glad for his presence tonight, secretly needing him to be close, yearning for any physical contact Connor will give him.

Connor pulls Hank against him, sensing his want. He emanates a gentle heat, lulling Hank into a thick, drowsy haze, “Good night, Hank.” Hank tries to open his mouth to respond, but sleep creeps in, demanding its due, and consumes him.

He awakes the following morning to a sudden weight thumping on his chest. He blinks open his eyes to see Sumo’s giant head resting on him. Connor walks into the room with the paper under his arm, still in pajama bottoms, carrying a mug of coffee in one hand and a plated omelet in the other.

“Good morning, Hank.” He says it with more pep than Hank ever feels in the morning. Connor sets both the cup and the plate on the bedside table before settling back into the armchair next to it. Hank eyes the omelet with suspicion.

“What’s the ratio of healthy crap to eggs and cheese in that thing?” Connor’s LED circles yellow, calculating, “I don’t mean _literally_ ,” Hank supplies hastily.

“Oh,” Connor shakes his head slightly at the interrupted processing, “No more than my usual attempts to moderate your fat and sodium intake.” Hank snorts but stabs a forkful of the omelet anyway. The only time Hank flat out refuses to eat something Connor’s made is when the primary color is green. The day he will always refer to as _The Kale Smoothie Incident_ remains a vivid memory. The omelet includes a moderate amount of colors with very little green so he figures it’s safe.

Sumo wanders over to Connor while Hank eats his omelet in bed. Connor bringing him breakfast in bed raised his suspicion levels significantly, but he seems content to let Hank eat while he asks Sumo _Who’s a good boy?_ over and over. Connor rises and tosses the newspaper to Hank before pulling on a shirt.

“There’s a story you might like in the sports section. I’ll take Sumo out back to do his business.” Suspicions adequately raised again, Hank settles back to read his paper. Whatever Connor was up to, he was enjoying it thus far. He hears Connor take Sumo outside, but he returns much too quickly.

“There is no way in hell that dog finished pissing yet.” Hank hollers from the bed. He hears Connor’s feet padding softly down the hall. He walks into the room, shutting the door behind him. The look on his face raises Hank’s body temperature several degrees. Hank hides behind the newspaper, pretending to be absorbed by it.

“I called a service. Sumo is being groomed right now. He won’t be back for several hours.” Hank peeks over the top of the paper and sees Connor lift his shirt over his head, the synthetic muscles in his back flexing slightly.

“Aaaand what are we doing?” Hank asks, trying to keep his tone casual. Connor performs a perfectly unnecessary stretch before turning to face Hank.

“Well, that depends a great deal on you, Hank.” Hank resists the urge to bury his face in the pillows.

“Meaning?” Hank’s baser urges snarl at him for playing hard to get.

Connor doesn’t fall for the ruse and flattens Hank’s attempts at resistance, “I’d suggest you make use of the bathroom now if you need to. We won’t be leaving this room for quite some time otherwise.” An immediate flush claims Hank’s face as he all but runs from the room.

Once in the bathroom, he settles into his morning routine. Brush teeth, trim beard, piss. As an afterthought, he trims a couple of unruly eyebrow hairs. Bracing his hands on the sink, he resists the impulse to give himself a pep talk. For one thing, he desperately wants Connor any way he can get him. For another, Connor would hear anything he said with his ridiculous android hearing.

When he walks back into the room, he realizes Connor took the opportunity to draw the curtains and set up the candles again. He’s grateful for it, suddenly feeling bashful. Caving to carnal instincts at night feels less embarrassing than acting on them during the day as if the moon is somehow less judgmental of sex than the sun.

Connor’s standing at the foot of the bed, and he beckons to Hank. Hank drifts toward him automatically, as if an unseen force is drawing him closer.

“Hank.” Connor says it so low and quiet Hank almost doesn’t hear it. Connor’s hands are on him immediately, his usual collected calm scattering to the corners of the room, fleeing from his potent desire. Hank feels fingers grip behind his neck, pulling him down into a heated kiss. He sinks down onto the bed, pulling Connor with him. His arms wrap up and around Connor’s back, digging in under his synthetic shoulder blades.

Connor grinds down slightly against Hank, making him gasp into his mouth. Connor’s hands fist into Hank’s hair as he repeats the motion, drawing a moan. Hank can tell Connor’s brief lapse in careful control is waning. He breaks the kiss before planting a trail of small pecks along Hank’s jaw.

“So, how would you like to spend the morning?” Connor asks the question as if they’re trying to decide what Hank should have for dinner. Hank leans his forehead against Connor’s chest, fingering at a mole on Connor’s waist that he particularly likes. He knows what Connor is waiting for and he knows Connor won’t budge on the issue. Hank’s going to have to ask for anything he wants.

“I want you.” He knows it won’t work, but he’s building up the courage to make the blunt request. He nuzzles at Connor’s collar bones, waiting for a reply. He feels Connor lean into him slightly.

“You have me, Hank. You’ve always had me.” Warmth blossoms at this unexpected turn, but he doesn’t have time to give it much thought before Connor is directing him back to the issue at hand, “Anything else?”

Hank takes a shuddering breath, refusing to lift his head from Connor’s chest, “I want to have sex with you.” It sounds sterile when he says it, but at least it’s out of his mouth.

“We have sex all the time, Hank.” At that moment, Hank realizes he is doomed to die a thousand embarrassing deaths by virtue of dating an android with a fine-tuned _be a little shit_ protocol. He knows what Connor is waiting for him to say.

“I want you to fuck me.” Half of the words are unintelligible as Hank has his entire face pressed flat into Connor’s chest. He is _not_ saying it again.

“Where are your manners Lieutenant? Ask me _nicely_.” Hank’s head snaps up at that.

“What?” he asks incredulously. Connor rarely pushes him this far.

Connor tilts his head to the side, the corners of his mouth tugging into a grin, “Say please.”

“Oh, no. I am drawing the l-line,” Hank tries to say it with authority, but Connor chooses that exact moment to grind down against him again. The last word comes out as a gasped stutter.

“Ok, Hank.” Connor’s easy acceptance and honey sweet smile have Hank wary. Connor pushes Hank down onto the bed, and Hank is almost certain he hears Connor mutter, “We’ll see about that,” before the sensation of Connor tugging off his pants consumes his thoughts.

Warm heat encloses around his cock and Hank’s torso bucks up at the sudden and unexpected touch. He sees Connor toss a bottle of lube to the side of the bed with his free hand while the other works Hank slowly.

“What is fucking, really?” Hank barely hears the question, his brain hyper-focused on Connor finally touching him like this. Connor doesn’t wait for an answer, “It’s the penetrative aspect of it. That’s what my research has led me to believe anyway.” Hank’s thoughts stutter to a halt while anxiety builds in his gut.

He’d understood what Connor had meant earlier about wanting to fuck him. At the word _penetrative,_ though, Hank’s brain began to initialize full-on panic mode. How was it even possible? Did Connor somehow go out and buy an android dick? Was he just going to whip it out of the closet or out from under the bed? Hank had gotten used to Connor’s body as it was and he wasn’t sure he really wanted him to modify it anyway.

“Hank,” Connor’s face hovers over him, concern etching his features. A gentle hand on his cheek reduces the volume on his sudden fear, “What’s wrong?”

“How?” his throat is dry and it comes out in an unattractive croak. He pushes himself up onto his elbows as he clears his throat. Connor looks at him quizzically so he presses on, “How is it possible for you…to…ya know?” A shadow of understanding skitters across Connor’s face.

“There are store-bought methods, of course, strap-ons and such, but I wasn’t intending to spring that on you today.” Hank blushes furiously at the word _strap-on_ , but he says nothing. Connor continues, “Not that I’m not interested in it, but I believe it would be better for us to learn how to walk before we run as the saying goes. I’d also prefer for this first time to be a natural extension of me.”

While his response quelled Hank’s fear of a dick popping out of a box, it doesn’t clarify what Connor intends to do. When Hank doesn’t show any signs of comprehension, Connor extends his hand into the air, “I have fingers, Hank. Rather long ones, actually.” Hank feels a furious blush consume his body, but he feels better.

“There’s another matter we need to discuss,” Connor looks at Hank, his hand resuming its slow stroking, bringing Hank’s flagging erection back to life.

“What’s that?” Hank groans out as he flops back onto the bed, arms covering his face.

“Look at me, Hank.” He waits for Hank to shift his arm to make eye contact, “You asked me how it’s possible for me to enjoy sex. You wanted to understand. I think I’ve found a way.” Connor’s skin ripples back from his torso, exposing a glowing white chest, pulsating blue around various seams and edges. Connor taps just below his thirium pump and a panel fades into view and slides to the side.

Hank has seen Connor remove his skin before, but he’s never seen inside him. There are several wires of varying sizes, “Watch the lights.” Hank would be hard pressed _not_ to watch them. Each wire seems to have a slight glow about it, but certain ones have small beads of light shooting through them. Some of the lights pass through the wires slowly while others are almost a blur of constant movement.

“It’s a circuit that occurs when I’m processing something. When I complete a circuit, it’s a…pleasurable sensation. Certain circuits are more powerful than others.” Hank’s trying to process what Connor’s saying, but Connor’s grip on him is fogging his mind.

“For instance,” Connor indicates one of the slow pulsing wires, “this one is me processing that the panel is open. It realizes I am at greater risk for damage. The longer I keep it open without any clear need of it, the more thirium I require.”

“So that’s why…the thirium…” Hank tries to participate in the conversation, but Connor’s hand had drifted from its lazy pumping to cradle Hank’s balls, making him hiss. Connor smiles at the sound before continuing.

“This one,” he points to one of the larger wires with a ball of light moving so quickly it’s almost impossible to see, “is me planning to make you orgasm.” The way he says _make_ pulls a groan from deep inside Hank’s chest. Hank coming by the end of this was a foregone conclusion, but the implication that Connor was in control of whether he allowed it or not sent spikes of embarrassed pleasure through him.

At the sound of the groan, one of the wires in Connor’s chest flared, almost too bright to look at directly, before going dim briefly. After a couple of seconds, the slow ball of light returns. Connor’s pleasant little smile and slight sigh got Hank’s attention, “What was that one?”

Connor smiled down at him, “That one was to make you moan.”

Realization is dawning over Hank. He sits up and Connor stops fondling him for a moment, “So that’s…it’s like how, for me…” He’s struggling to put his thoughts into words. As usual, Connor rescues him.

“It’s a visual representation of the pleasure I feel.” Hank may not be as smooth with his words as Connor is, but he’s still a damn fine detective. He has a theory he needs to put to the test.

“Can I touch them?” He expects Connor to balk. It’s not a normal request to ask your partner if you can stick your hands in their guts, but here they are. Connor eyes him for a moment before giving him a slight nod followed by, “Be careful.”

Hank reaches out, intrigued by the largest and fastest pulsating wire. His hand falters and looks to Connor. When he doesn’t see any hesitation, he reaches out and lightly strokes it. Connor’s reaction is immediate. His hand slams into Hank’s chest, knocking him backward as a primal growl crosses his lips. His mouth is practically mauling Hank’s as a fierce desire grips his body.

Hank can’t see the wires anymore from this position, but he’s beyond caring where he makes contact so long as he can make Connor react like this. Hank’s hand returns to the panel opening and he wriggles his fingers against anything that offers them resistance. Connor’s skin glitches, a white ripple running down his body. Hank feels hands close around his wrists before Connor jerks them up above his head.

A fierce hunger paints Connor’s face and his simulated breathing is coming out ragged and uneven. Whatever it is Connors feels from Hank touching his insides, it’s a hell of a lot more sensitive than Hank expected.

“That was…interesting.” His vision had clouded with warnings and error notices at the intrusion. Hank touching him had created a dozen message, some warning him of a foreign object inside him, others identifying the source, _Hank Anderson, Unauthorized. Hank Anderson, Unauthorized. Hank Anderson, Unauthorized._ Connor had never been awake for internal maintenance before, but he doubts he would’ve reacted that way to anyone else. He’ll explain it to Hank later, but for now…

“Today is about you, not me, Hank.” Hank makes a sound of protest, but his growing erection is clearly siding with Connor.

“I want to touch you,” it comes out sounding horrifying close to a whine, but Hank doesn’t care. He’s found a way to _see_ Connor like Connor sees him. He’s a thirsting man at a beautiful fountain and he doesn’t want to stop drinking from it.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Connor’s tone should be enough of a warning to Hank that he’s about to be wrecked, but he’s beyond caring. He wants to touch Connor like this again. “I’ll let you touch them,” he waves a hand toward the still open panel, “but only after I’m satisfied with you.” To punctuate the point, he lets go of Hank’s arms to grab for the lube. He returns his attention to Hank once more.

Connor knows everything about Hank and his preferences. He knows how to bring Hank to the brink of orgasm within minutes but then ride the edge of it for what feels like hours. He can work Hank up and bring him back down with absurd ease. Hank is unsurprised when Connor turns him into a shivering, moaning mess almost instantly.

“Open your eyes, Hank.” It’s a frequent and common request. Connor craved eye contact anytime they were together like this, but Hank knows today is different. His eyes flicker to the opening on Connor’s chest and he can see that several of the wires’ lights have picked up speed. Connor taps at Hank’s legs, running his fingers down, dipping just below his balls, and Hank realizes what Connor’s after.

Deciding to give him a taste of his own medicine, Hank says mockingly, “Use your words, Connor. Tell me what you want.”

Connor fixes him with a steady gaze, “Spread your legs, Lieutenant, so I can fuck you.”

Hank manages to gasp, “Oh, Christ,” before complying and making a mental note to never try that again.

Hank sees Connor make a grab for the lube in his peripheral, and his heart starts frantically slamming against his chest. He feels Connor’s stare on his face as one long finger lightly swirls around his puckered hole, before gently pressing in. All of the oxygen leaves Hank’s lungs at this first intrusion and Connor holds steady, waiting for Hank to calm down.

“You’re warm, Hank.” He flushes hideously at that statement, but it serves only to fuel Connor on more. He begins working into Hank, pushing deeper with each pump, gauging Hank’s reaction. He adds a second finger and Hank bucks against it before grinding down. Connor knows he’s found what he’s looking for when Hank throws his head back and lets out a needy groan.

A light blooms brightly and diminishes in Connor’s chest—a completed circuit of pleasure—and Hank longs to touch the wires again. Connor sees him looking, a determined smile crosses his face, “Why don’t you come, Lieutenant, if you want to touch them so badly?” Hank’s hand reaches for his cock to try to speed up the process, but Connor smacks it away.

He thrusts his fingers into Hank, gently touching the sensitive bundle of nerves he knows is there. Hank arches his back against it, “Can’t you come, Lieutenant?” He thrusts against Hank’s prostate again, causing him to cry out for the first time.

“Just let me—,” Hank’s hand drifts toward his aching cock, but Connor jerks his head left to right.

“I want you to orgasm, I do, but from this.” He punctuates the final word with another thrust, and Hank has to bite his lip to contain the sound trying to escape him. He eyes the wires in Connor’s chest before being trapped by Connor’s stare.

He feels Connor slip in another finger and groans at the pressure. Connor leans over Hank, hooking a thigh with his free arm as he does so, thrusting deeper and at a better angle. Hank wants so badly to touch himself, for Connor to touch him, anything to make the building ache reach its peak.

“The face you make when you’re falling apart,” Connor’s talking to him, but it’s hard to focus on anything other than his impending orgasm, “I love it.” _Love_. The word fires like a shot from Connor’s mouth straight through Hank’s chest. The first thing Connor’s ever loved is Hank’s face.

Connor knows the signs when Hank is about to come and he applies himself to thrusting into him, angling himself in such a way that pulls half-moaned sobs from Hank.

“Connor.” He says it weakly, half pleading, half telling, “Connor, _please_.” The please draws a gloating smile across Connor’s face, but Hank is beyond caring.

Connor reaches around the leg over his shoulder to grab Hank’s hand, “Look at me.” When their eyes connect, Connor draws Hank’s hand toward his chest. Hank sees the glowing lights, finds the wire he knows is processing _Fucking Hank into Oblivion_ , and wraps his hand around it. Connor growls at the contact and slams a particularly brutal thrust into Hank. The look of feral pleasure on Connor’s face combined with the ceaseless onslaught of his fingers undoes Hank.

Hank’s entire body seizes, his hand gripping tightly around the wire, as he feels the first surge of his orgasm race through him. Ropes of heat course up his cock before bursting free in wonderful release. Lights begin to surge into existence and fade within Connor’s chest as circuit after circuit achieves completion. The wire beneath Hank’s hand grows warmer before it flares. Hank’s hand drops weakly to the mattress while Connor unhooks Hank’s leg from his shoulder, fingers sliding out of him. He collapses on the bed next to Hank, closing the panel in his chest.

After a moment, Connor rises and grabs at a box of tissues, before handing them to Hank. “Don’t you need to clean up, too?” Hank asks him, looking pointedly at Connor’s hand.

“Self-sanitizing.” He says simply, while Hank grumbles and wipes at the sticky residue on his stomach. Before Hank can lie down again, Connor grabs at him, pulling him close. Hank flops, feeling boneless, onto Connor, his head resting on Connor’s chest. He feels Connor’s hands tracing patterns into the skin of his back.

 _You have me, Hank. You’ve always had me_ and _I love it_ play on a constant loop in Hank’s mind. As his post-orgasm lethargy creeps in, he wraps the memories around him like a warm blanket and tucks his face against Connor’s neck.

 _I love you_. He doesn’t know if he thinks it or says it before his eyes drift closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The world needs more bottom Hank. 
> 
> I'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake).

**Author's Note:**

> Continuing to add to the bottom Hank archives. Connor is a firm but gentle top. Can't convince me otherwise. 
> 
> I'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake).


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